The Cathedral
by AMarguerite
Summary: A glimpse into the past of Monsieur Charles Myriel, wherein M. Myriel mourns the loss of his wife, stares at his shoe buckles, and talks with an Italian priest. Because sixty pages in the Brick are not nearly enough.


Disclaimer: I am not Victor Hugo, never have been, never will be, etc. Therefore, do not sue me, please.

* * *

The cathedral was dark and quiet, with only the moonlight sneaking glances through the stained glass windows. The light was washed out and pale, as if timorous and tremulous in the face of the shadows. The man fully expected the moonlight to disappear entirely, finally giving up its inadequate defenses against the darkness and surrender completely.

The man sat quietly in one of the pews, numb from the cold, and the equally glacial weight of fresh grief. He stared in a detached, somewhat blank, manner at a golden crucifix. It gleamed dully against the harsh facade, as if it were in need of polish. The man felt as if the smooth gold of the cross was out of place against the rough, porous surface of the rock.

The man eventually turned his gaze to the hard floor in front of him. There seemed to be nothing in the cathedral that offered any relief against the coldness of the dark, or the melancholy and grief that palpably tainted the frigid air.

The man did not look up from the ground, though slowly, his tears began to thaw his frozen cheeks and splatter the dark fabric of his pants. It was an inevitable thing, letting grief overcome you, to thaw out the frozen barrier you'd try and build around your heart to keep it from hurting. Even frozen roses thaw and turn into mush.

Her face haunted him.

How could she smile so peacefully when dying?

How could her eyes retain their happy glow even when they no longer saw?

How could it be that _his_ eyes were dimmed with tears, blurred and bleached by their salty sting?

The man looked at the ground in front of him in almost studious deliberation. It was as if his heart had cracked in two and he was searching for the broken pieces. Perhaps he stared at the place his heart had been, sorrowing over its disappearance. Is the heart so delicate a thing that it could fall apart like a rose, and have its petals scattered over the floor, devoid of their color and vitality?

Silence reigned, and the man fancied that the sound of his tears falling into his lap were as loud as hailstones hitting the ground. They felt as heavy, and seemed to carve deep rivulets on his cheeks. He studied the pattern the moonlight made on the ground until his eyes ached from weariness and the image swam dizzily in front of his eyes.

A loud, echoing sound was heard. Sonorous thumping, like footsteps, resounded in the stone cathedral, disturbing the man's moment of solitude. The man moved only to wipe the tears off his cheeks with a pale and trembling hand.

The footsteps echoed closer, and stopped next to the pew containing the man. The man thought, somewhat absently, to draw himself up to his full height, but decided not to. He was not very tall. It could hardly matter. Instead, he looked at his hands, and tried to discern the hazy glow of his cold hands from the equally hazy glow of the moonlight. It was a futile attempt, as his vision remained distorted by tears.

The footsteps stopped next to him, and a kindly voice inquired, "Are you all right, my son?"

The Italian words barely penetrated the blanket of sorrow around the man. He did not respond, for fear that his words would become caught in his throat and his tears would dominate the conversation.

"My son, you are obviously in great distress. Can we assist you?"

The man shook his head mutely. Nothing could pierce the gloom that enveloped his soul. Nothing could sew up the pieces of his broken heart. Nothing could help him to see in anything other then a dim, blurry haze.

"Are you sure, my son? Members of the clergy are often known for their usefulness in times of great distress."

The loud footsteps slid into the pew and the priest sat next to the man.

The man did not look up, his gaze trained on the ground. For a long time, the church was very quiet.

Then the man, feeling guilty for forcing a priest to stay up late, and lulled into a detached somnolence from his grief, murmured, "My wife is dead. There is nothing you can do. I thank you anyways." The man spoke in French, his native language. Hearing it brought yet more tears to blur his vision: how often did he speak with her, whisper softly to her in the pre-morning darkness, recite bits of poetry in praise of her eyes? It was beyond count, and the man suddenly felt idiotic for his shameful tears.

"Was it your wife's funeral that we held to today?" The priest's voice was sympathetic. The man was slightly surprised that the priest spoke French, but figured that priests were scholars: they probably knew three or four languages.

But the man did not trust himself with movement. He sat and whispered, "Oui."

"I'm sorry for your loss, my son," the priest said softly, placing a hand on the man's shoulder. "My dear son, just as we sorrow for the loss of your wife, we should rejoice that she has shed the sins and evils of this world and gone to God."

The man wanted to snort derisively or perhaps glare, but didn't have the energy. He settled for making a non-committal "Hm."

"It is true, my son. As surely as Christ died for her, and as surely as she believed in Him, she is in an eternal paradise, where her soul is not bound to the things of this world, and she has found eternal peace and happiness."

Again, the man wanted to snort. But the desire was not quite so strong as before.

The priest took his hand off the man's shoulder. "My son, may I read something to you?"

"If you wish," the man complied dully, looking at the buckles on his shoes.

The priest stood, and his footsteps clacked up to the pulpit and back to the pew. "This is from Revelations 21. Do you understand Latin?"

"Bits and pieces. Not enough to be fluent." The man did not want to talk, did not want to listen to the priest. He wanted to be alone to stare at his shoe buckles. His shoe buckles were quite interesting on closer inspection, and his wife had picked them out for him.

"I'll translate it to French then." The priest paused a moment, scanning the page and mumbling some phrases under his breath. "All right: Then I saw a new heaven and a new earth, for the first heaven and the first earth had passed away, and there was no longer any sea. I saw the Holy City, the new Jerusalem, coming down out of heaven from God, prepared as a bride beautifully dressed for her husband."

The man clenched his jaw at that. He did not want to give way to tears.

"And I heard a loud voice from the throne saying, "Now the dwelling of God is with men, and he will live with them. They will be his people, and God himself will be with them and be their God. He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away."

The priest waited a moment to let the words sink in, and then closed the soft leather covers gently.

The man could not add anything to it. He commented, "I miss her so."

Out of the corner of his eye, the man could see the priest smile tiredly, and the moonlight gleam off the pale whiteness of his hair. "May I tell you something, my son? I was once married too." He sighed somewhat wistfully. "Her name was Clarabelle. I loved her more then anything else. She never failed to make me laugh, and when she died, I felt as if my world had collapsed. But I shall never forget her dying words to me."

"What were they?" the man whispered in a tired, ragged voice. He imagined that the smooth, fluid French phrases caught on the jagged edges of his voice, ripping the niceties of the language away to leave pure emotion.

"They were... 'Augustine... I am going to be with God, in the most wonderful place imaginable. Do not sorrow over me. In fact, I shall sorrow for you, that you must remain on earth for a little longer then I. I shall be waiting for you, my dear Augustine, and God shall be with you until then.' Then she asked for a glass of water, and passed onto the next world."

The man looked at his shoe buckles until he trusted himself to speak. "I... I thank you."

The priest smiled once more. "It isn't much, my son, but it helps."

The man began to ask a question, but it seemed unformed and too malleable. He paused another moment, and asked, "All people, when they die...they...?"

"They all go to God, my son. Regardless of who they are."

The man felt an achy sense of relief that made tears spring unexpectedly to his eyes. "I shall see her again?"

"Undoubtedly, my son. I know I shall see Clarabelle again some day."

The man and the priest lapsed into silence.

Then, hesitantly, in a trembling tone that would have made the man wince if he'd been in the company of anyone other then the priest, the man asked, "Why?"

"Ah... that's very nuanced question, my son. So nuanced that perhaps none can answer it save God. But let me tell you this: Everything that happens to us, here on earth, is for the best possible thing for our salvation."

The man felt struck dumb by that reply. To him, it made almost no sense at all. He managed to turn to the priest in confusion, with a look that plainly said, "What kind of an answer is that?"

"Come to Mass tomorrow, my son, and we shall make your vision clearer... and lighten the grief your heart carries. Good night, my son. I shall pray for you."

The priest stood and left, his footsteps echoing very lightly off the walls.

The man sat a moment more, staring at his shoe buckles yet again. Then, he turned his gaze to the cross in front of him, which gleamed softly in the glow of the moon, seeming to have a halo of light about it. The man stood, unsteadily, his gaze transfixed on the golden object before him. It looked even more out of place then before, its inherent beauty and the compassionate expression of the Christ making a very stark contrast against the rocks in the wall. Uncertainly, the man walked up to the crucifix and examined it from all angles. No matter how he looked at it, it seemed so out of place.

The man stepped away, slowly backing out of the cathedral. He paused, though, in a light of a window, the moonlight appearing like a spill of milk on the floor. He squinted at the crucifix, and suddenly, an image of his wife flashed before his eyes. There she was, blushing and lovely, clutching a bouquet of flowers and smoothing out the lace on her dress. And there he was, looking pleased and a little apprehensive, tugging slightly uncomfortably on his cravat. And there was the priest, reading the service in a loud tone. And there were their families, smiling softly, happily. And there was the image of Jesus, looking benevolently down upon them all. The man felt tears trickle down his cheeks, and he shakily wiped his cheeks off with his hand.

That cross was placed perfectly. The man linked his hands behind his back and admitted, to himself, that he could not imagine it any other way.

Perhaps he would return to the cathedral for Mass.

Perhaps the only reason for the crucifix to be on the wall was to show its contrast against the rocks. The man smiled at the figure of Jesus a moment, and was sure, absolutely sure, that the figure of Jesus was smiling back at him.


End file.
